Green Wounds
by General-Senyaka98
Summary: Spencer was perfect. So he took him.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Green Wounds

**Author:** General-Senyaka98

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Criminal Minds.

**A/N-** This has to be the weirdest thing I have ever written.

**Summery: **Spencer was perfect. So he took him.

**Chapter one**

_The devil knows exactly what he's doing… ~ John Mellencamp_

Charlie Stockett was secretly an avid chef. It wasn't that he found the hobby embarrassing in itself; it was just that he hated to be subjected to the merciless teasing he would have to deal with if his buddies ever found out. Which was why he only ever told women, or people that didn't, nor would they ever, know his group of friends. This was pretty hard to keep straight in his already worked up mind, so he tended to just not tell anybody unless it was absolutely necessary.

This was pretty much never.

When it happened, Charlie was in the kitchen. He was chopping onions and cursing the tears that were tumbling down his face. He always forgot the little tricks for _not _crying when you messed with onions until later, usually when he was in the shower, thinking about the case his team was working on or just what was currently going on in his life. He hated onions. They were evil; onions were (in his mind) the embodiment of hate. Damn them to perdition.

He chuckled at his own odd humor as he gathered the tiny onion-squares in his long fingers (the hands of a pianist, his mother would often remind him when she would try to persuade him to get off his lazy adolescent ass and do something productive) and dumped them unceremoniously into a pot of spaghetti sauce. He put the rest of the onion in a little plastic bag and put it into the refrigerator with the rest of the fruits and vegetables.

He didn't hear the swampy-green liberty jeep pull into his driveway because, his bad luck winning again, a roaring motorcycle was speeding past his house at the very same time; the engines' low, rumbling growl synchronizing with the subtle crackle of a vehicle's tires crushing driveway pebbles under its weight. Sadly, even if he did hear it, he probably would have thought someone was just turning around. He might have noticed the man approaching his house and opened the door, maybe even let him into his house if he had said that he was having car troubles. Being a police officer, Charlie was pretty confident in his ability to take care of himself.

The intruder slowly, cautiously roamed around the house; eyeing the neighbor's windows to make sure no one saw him. He had been watching his prey for some time, and knew every possible way to get into his house. He knew that the back door was never locked, but it squeaked loudly enough to wake the dead. The front door was always locked because Stockett had seen what could happen to people when they left the front door unlocked and were caught unawares. Stockett had playfully mentioned to his friends that, in his opinion, you might as well have the door cracked a little, with a pile of weapons sitting in the entryway for anyone's taking. The intruder thought that his prey was being naïve; keeping the front door locked was pointless if you never locked any other entryway to your home.

There was a big window in the bedroom that Charlie liked to open on summer nights while he slept. It was rarely, if ever, locked and slid open as silently as a plush sock sliding on linoleum. Charlie even cracked it a little, enjoying the smell of grass and fresh air that seeped into his house. The predator took advantage of this, sliding his fingers under the wood and slowly lifting it. He smiled to himself at the success of his observing, welcoming self gratitude. This one would be easier than the previous hunt, in which his prey had uncharacteristically locked up his house, making every entryway inaccessible, all because of a call from a panicked news watching mother.

He didn't count on the predator following him to his work.

He had had to wait for that one to leave his house, had to sit in the parking lot of the gas station (with a drink he had bought from inside, where he got a case of the trembles knowing that his prey and himself were only separated by the little counter and a register) until it was time for him to go home. He saw him exit the gas station and got out of his car, slid over to his prey's own vehicle. It was dark, making it easier for him to hide behind the man's car until he got just close enough for him to leap out and-

The new prey's singing brought him out of the memory. He smiled a bit, wondering if he could get him to sing when he had him. He didn't doubt that he could, what with the "taming" effect he and a wisely chosen weapon had on his prey. Singing was a good thing; it meant that the person was relaxed, and it was easier to get them if they are comfortable. He had learned that the first time he went hunting. That time, the person had panicked and tried to fight. They lost, of course, but still. He preferred to save the fighting for later, when there was virtually zero chance of someone stumbling upon them. The process wasn't right if there was no preparation and they were the wrong sort of person. He liked them to carry a specific brand of appearance, and an innocent witness that was lost in his woods was really unlikely to just happen to look how he wanted.

He slipped in through the window, testing the floor's creakiness. He walked in a big circle, testing the waters, and heard nothing that would give him away. Then he moved silently on to the door, pleased that it didn't squeak in the slightest, and snuck down the hall. He knew where the kitchen was, and even if he didn't the man's voice would give his location away.

He had to suppress a gasp when he saw him. Much like an animal, it induced much more feeling when you saw one up close and personal as opposed to a photograph taken from a distance or watching through binoculars. He was tall, pale, and delicately thin. He had listened to the man's companions tease him for this, how he was so insubstantial compared to the rest of them. His hair was long but well taken care of and, when he turned, his big brown eyes were full of beautiful, strong emotion.

XXX

Spencer rubbed the itch out of his eyes, fighting back exhaustion with every ounce that his worn body would allow. He wasn't ready to sleep. He still needed to finish reading the obscenely large stack of files, an abundance of which were originally Prentiss and Morgan's, that he had discovered this morning. There was no doubt that he usually could have completed the stack much earlier than the late hour of 11:43 on any other day, but the present one seemed to have other plans for him_**. **_

The third thing he had done when arriving at work, after dropping his satchel on his desk (which would be when he noticed the scarily enormous mound of folders) and waving hello to JJ through the window, was make a madman's dash to the coffee. He wasn't shocked as much as disappointed to see that the pot contained nothing but the cold sediments settled at the bottom. He sighed; mentally choking whoever had drank the final cup without having the common decency to at the very least empty the thing out.

He sighed, but quickly pushed the agitation from his mind and poured the bitter coffee out into the sink. He yanked open the cabinet directly to his right and reached in for the coffee beans that usually sat there, that _always_ sat there. His patted the cold, empty, cabinet wood. He removed his hand from the cupboard and looked. He groaned, taking a deep breath and running his hand down his face when he saw that there was nothing there. They were out of coffee.

He walked down the hall and told JJ that he was going to make a coffee run and asked her if she wanted something. She smiled brightly, probably a little relieved that someone else was going to make the journey and she could get her own bulky pile of work done. Reid was admittedly a little jealous.

But he nodded and headed out, slipping on a jacket to fend away the cold. The small Café wasn't very far away so, despite the brutal wintry weather, he chose to walk there. Careful not to skid, Reid made his way over the sea of ice that covered the sidewalk before him.

As he walked, his mind cradled deep thoughts concerning the team's most recent case. It was one of their more mild investigations, one they would be able to end quickly. Then they would move on to another and another. His head ached with exhaustion and he walked a little faster.

The line at the Cafe was long. Annoyingly long, and Reid was a patient individual. He waited and waited and wondered what JJ would say if he just walked back without coffee. Probably something along the lines of "_Oh, that's okay. I wasn't that thirsty." _But he would know she was lying and it would make him feel bad, but before he would be able to leave and try again she would already have her coat and bag and be halfway out the door. And then he would feel even worse.

So he took a deep breath and let his mind roam to the dread of his work load. Reid was a pretty fast reader, but he was also going to have to write and observe photos, plus the things written about in those folders weren't exactly fun reads.

"Sir? Sir, what would you like?" The beanpole behind the counter inquired, tilting his head curiously to the side. Reid blinked a few times, surprised that he was so out of it, and quickly rambled off all of the orders.

The kid behind the counter, the little rectangular tag pinned to his front labeled him with the much overused tile of "Joe", rushed to keep up with Reid's rapid speech to no avail. Reid watched him pucker his lips and stare at the tiny machine before him before giving up and pleading with the genius with his eyes. This time, Reid ordered nice and slow, wondering where the normal guy was. This time, Joe got it.

Reid leaned against the cherry wood counter as he waited, eaves dropping on the conversation around him. The soon to be ex-couple, who sat at a table directly back and to the left of Reid, were arguing. Namely about what a "filthy fucking whore" he was, and how he "only did it because he couldn't stand her oversized nose jabbing his eye every time they kissed". Reid squinted, trying to picture how large the woman's nose would have to be to be so annoying that her significant other would cheat.

A pretty lady with long, wavy, brunette hair was bouncing her baby, giggling whenever he smiled his big no-teeth grin and let out a baby chortle. Two old men were discussing some game that their team had done poorly in that night, of course blaming it all on the referee. Reid was really enjoying listening to some guy trying his hand at flirting with a girl who was obviously not going to go with it, when several coffees were dropped in front of him and Joe waggled the fingers of his outstretched hand for money.

With a grimace at the price (which was greatly inflated when you added so many other orders to his own usual) Reid reluctantly obliged, not feeling that this was the time or place for some sort of protest that would likely do nothing more than send him back to work with nothing more than wounded pride and no coffee to speak of. He fished in his wallet for the cash and handed it over reluctantly. Joe smiled wickedly.

"Come again."

"Yeah, thanks."

XXX

When he walked in through the door the predator couldn't help but gasp silently, bringing on a questioning glance from Joe. He smiled at his coworker and shook his head, because even if he told the man about the amazing creature that was tapping his foot impatiently at the back of the line, how his breath was ushered from his chest when his long brunette hair caught the sun so perfectly that strands of blonde shone through, how his dark brown eyes swept around(almost like he was looking for him too, and maybe he was) the room, how he stuffed his right hand into his pants pocket and leaned back on the heels of his feet with a heavy sigh, he wouldn't be able to understand. Because Joe had never been in love before.

He wasn't surprised that Spencer was there though, he came often when they were out of coffee at work or he wanted a muffin, or maybe because he wanted to see the man who was watching him just as bad. It made the man squirm every morning when Spencer came in, hands shaking with desire to touch that soft, white skin.

And he had been planning this for the last month, after he had taken Charlie Stockett. It was always like that; he never saw anybody else until he completed a hunt. As soon as he got a new man home he opened his eyes and began gathering information on the next one. When the prey he had died, he went out to get a new one. This just seemed easier to him, because he would never be without someone.

And Charlie Stockett had died just before work that day.

His heart fluttered when Spencer made it to the front and ordered, twice, resting his weight on the counter. He imagined just walking up and grabbing the man's neck, feeling the round shoulders and protruding collarbones beneath that pale flesh. He was brought out of his fantasy by Joe passing him a slip of paper with the order and snapping at him to hurry the hell up.

His green eyes dragged down the list, instantly knowing which one was Reid's. He tried not to make this coffee faster than he had made the others, pouring and filling like a bored adolescent who would rather be out with his friends or girlfriend. He saved Reid's for last, carefully pouring two tablespoons of sugar into the cup and, when no one was looking, a pinch of yellow powder that quickly sank to the bottom of the cup. He smiled as the small pebbles of drug disappeared into the steaming cup, carrying no scent or taste.

"Here you go." He said, handing the cups off the Joe and watching Spencer's face contort with agitation when he saw the price.

XXX

He used his hip to open the glass door and stepped cautiously out. The icy wind smacked him fiercely, sending needle-like pokes of pain across the pink flesh of his face and neck. He shivered quickly before rolling his shoulders and setting out on his journey back to work.

Reid took several steps out before he heard the muffled jingle that alerted him to a new text message and felt his pocket vibrate. He carefully placed the coffees down on a small round table used for eating outside (which no one was using in such horrible weather) and plucked the cell phone out of his pocket. JJ's name flashed up on the screen and he opened the message. _Hotch wants us all, now. _Reid read it and shoved the phone back in his pocket, not bothering to reply. He picked the coffee back up and scooted along the road of ice.

He saw Jesus several times during his return to work, legs wobbling in a cartoonish fashion. He had nearly done the splits at one point, holding the carton of coffee up in the air to keep them safe from the painful and messy demise of being splattered across the icy road.

Spencer was greeted and thanked by the rest of the team with happy smiles and nods. Everyone appreciated the gesture, so he decided that the long wait had been worth it.

"Hotch isn't here yet." Prentiss shrugged when he asked where he was and he decided it was a good thing. He could get some of his work done before Hotch showed up.

He settled down at his desk, coffee in hand, and got to work on the files when about ten more were slammed carelessly down beside the stack. He glared up, expecting to see Morgan or Emily and completely ready to tell whichever it was that they could take that pile and shove it up their-

"Sorry, Spence, but they're really nailing us." She said with a sympathetic grimace. He stared at her stiff, tired, baby blue eyes and decided that he could live with a slightly larger stack. He forced his own grin and nodded curtly. She smiled back before turning and stomping off to drop extra work on someone else.

He focused a glower at the offending folders, picking up the old stack and dropping it on top of the new one, reasonably confident that it wouldn't tumble over. He groaned, overtaken by sudden vertigo. He rested his face in his hands for a few tired beats before clapping his hands and returning to work.

Which was apparently the cue for Morgan to pay him a visit. Reid's coworker dragged a chair over and sat down on it backwards so that he could lean forward and wrap his thick arms around the back rest. He flashed his white teeth at Reid, smiling like there was no work to be done and he could leave whenever he pleased.

"What's up?" He asked. Spencer looked at his work, then back at Morgan. His eyes flickered back and forth several times, trying to hint Morgan in on his agitation and desire to be left alone. The idea wasn't captured, and he saw no escape but to answer.

"The sky." Reid mumbled, trying to block the bigger man out and return to the stack of work that was level to his face. Morgan snorted.

"Right, okay. Why are you so grouchy?" The smile was still there, and a smaller, meaner part of Reid imagined himself peeling those happy lips right off his face. He pushed the odd longing away and shrugged instead.

Morgan finally seemed to notice the enormous pile. His eyebrows raised and he smirked a little in Reid's direction. "Since when are you so late with your work? I thought you were supposed to be the genius who could read a billion words a second."

"Twenty-thousand a minute. And I'm not that far behind, I just have to-." But his eyes found the small clock he had resting on the corner of his desk, settled between a picture of the team all together and a small jar of candy with a purple ribbon covered in silver sparkles (obviously a gift from Garcia), with its arms stretched out to present that it was already 4:06 PM. He thought back at how long it had taken him to get the coffee and how long he had been working (or trying to work). "Holy Cow!" He yelped, bringing on a monsoon of chuckles from Morgan.

"Holy Cow's right. What were you doing?" He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. Reid shook his head, and purple dots tangoed before his eyes, covering Morgan's face. Spencer drooped down so his head was between his legs for a few beats where he was certain he would puke all over his shoes. "Hey? Are you alright?"

Morgan grabbed Reid's shoulders and leaned so their faces were almost level. Reid closed his eyes and whispered through heavy breath that he was fine. He tried to sit up, and groaned when the purple dots decided to use his brain as a trampoline.

"Reid, stay completely still. I'm going to go get some help." He got up, careful not to touch Reid or jostle him. Morgan's footsteps as he ran to get JJ or Garcia (because he figured they would be the best at comforting and helping) sounding like asteroids pounding the earth, each footfall making Reid jump. He clamped the heels of his hands to his ears and dug them in as hard as he could. He was shaking violently and his breath came out in shuddering gasps. He clamped his mouth shut certain that opening it would result in puking.

Ignoring Morgan's order and the excruciating pain squeezing his brain, he slowly lifted himself onto his feet and trudged to the bathroom, taking no notice of the concerned glances and questions aimed at him. He pulled open the door, the sound of wood scraping against wood making him stop to collect himself for a moment, and slipped in. He locked the door behind him and dropped to the toilet to empty his gut. All that came out was yellow foam and spit that hung from his lips in long streams.

And then, like it had never happened, he was completely fine.

He spat twice and fell back on his butt, disregarding how revolting the restroom floor was. His head stopped hurting as soon as his stomach calmed and he was only shaking a little. He leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath and wondering what the hell just happened. He found himself allowing his head to thump gently back onto the stained and moldy wall and closed his eyes, the remnants of his illness leaving a bitter taste on his tongue and inertia in his eyes. He could hear Morgan and Garcia causing a small ruckus, Morgan's garbled voice through the door bringing a childish smile to his lips. He wasn't in danger, was just coming down with a bad case of the flu. It would be better if they stayed away from him and let him sleep so that he could quickly get rid of the bug without passing it on to them. Unless they decided to wipe their faces on the spitty toilet, of course. He reminded himself to wipe that up when he woke up.

The foggy arms languidly curled around his mind and gently tugged him into unconsciousness.

XXX

It felt like his head was filled with hot water, making it too hard and heavy to think. Reid's head lolled lazily to his right shoulder, a guttural noise gurgled from deep within his throat and he was distantly aware of hot sickness gathering in his stomach.

The sound of people pounding on the door was far-flung and muted, sounding a bit more like the hum of millions of bees than five people jerking around uneasily, churning their hips tightly in a painful circle with the zippers of their pants halfway down in anticipation of a close call.

"C'mon, man. We all have a right to the bathroom. Get your business done and give the rest of us a turn!" Someone begged, jiggling the handle desperately. Half a minute later, when the door was busted open by a worried Morgan's foot, the same man grumbled from his spot on the floor. "How bad do you have to pee?"

XXX

The silent conversation filling the briefing room held when the screen flickered from the fuzzy blue to a deep black. They waited for a picture to appear, but the screen sat in chilling darkness that reflected their faces back at them like a dark mirror. Three empty seats were visible in the darkness, waiting along with the rest of them for Morgan, Garcia, and Reid to hurry up and arrive. They were ten minutes late, and they considered going on a manhunt, only half joking.

Eventually, a huffing Garcia slammed into the room. She brought with her low tones of her usual bursting joy and color but mostly was dragging along confliction and evident concern. She was followed by no one, and the door fell shut behind her. Rossi leaned forward in his seat and had a brief staring contest with the abnormally silent woman, one eyebrow arching high above the other.

"Garcia." He finally said, and Garcia blinked quickly.

"Yes?" Her voice was a haggard high-pitched sound that was a good sign of disconcert. Rossi's face molded easily into a caring smile and he placed a large hand over her smaller one. She glanced down at their meeting hands then back up to his face. "Morgan is driving Reid home. He's sick."

"Is he going to be alright?" He asked. Garcia smiled crookedly, Rossi's honest concern for one of their teammates bubbling in her heart. She nodded quickly and leaned back in her seat, focusing her eyes on the screen.

Hotch, realizing that there would be no new arrivals, looked at JJ to start. She strode up to the screen and pressed a button on the small remote control that directed the monitor's change in image. A bright picture appeared suddenly and the agents blinked at the unexpected brightness. It was a boy, could have been family of Reid's with his awkward smile and shy posture, embarrassed and trying to hide behind his long brunette hair.

"Levi Gilson, 28, found six months ago, sitting on a park bench." She pressed the button again and the image shrank to make room for a gruesome picture of the same boy, horribly mutilated. He was fully dressed and was positioned like any other average Joe that would rest on a bench and watch the wind push the trees. She pressed the button again.

The murder scene was replaced by another boy that closely resembled the last one. The snapshot split to reveal him sitting on the steps just outside his house, in the same shape as the last man. "Jason Mulds, 25, found sitting outside his own home five months ago." Suddenly the living images of Gilson, Mulds, and four other young men- all closely resembling each other- clustered on the screen.

"Gilson was gone for a month before his body was discovered, at which time Mulds went missing." JJ went on, glancing up at the faces of the six victims. Her mouth went dry and she had to clear her throat to continue. "This same pattern has been followed with each of the victims. The day one is found, another disappears for a month. When they are found, they are wounded but otherwise clean. No blood, no dirt, no DNA."

"Wait, so you're saying that this guy hasn't taken a break for six months?" Rossi asked, leaning back in his chair with disbelief. He had heard of obsession, but six months of kidnapping and torturing seemed like something you'd have to rest up for and going straight through all of that was unrealistic.

"That's what it looks like." JJ grumbled, scratching her arm. She didn't wait for any more questions before continuing to the part she wanted to get over with, the part that kept her up at night, trying to imagine what the poor victims had felt like, how they were so similar to Reid. "The current investigators have theorized, based off of the autopsy reports, that the wounds being inflicted on the victims are done by some sort of lunatic." She pursed her lips and the screen flipped to up-close photos of some of the wounds.

"Electrocution?" Prentiss asked, her face contorting with displeasure. JJ nodded and folded her arms over her chest.

"And other things; limb removal, starvation, unidentified drugs in their systems." The pictures continued to change to bloody stumps, bloated stomachs, and baggies full of mysterious substances. "Then they found this, and they think maybe the UNSUB is actually performing tests on his victims."

A photo of a DVD with a post-it note appeared on the screen and the team leaned forward to read what was scrawled across in thin, black writing. "He didn't work, broke too easily." JJ grudgingly changed the screen to the next slide, and began playing what had been saved onto the disc.

The video was looking down on Jason Mulds, who was running top-speed on a treadmill. He was panting loudly, clutching with painfully tight grip to the front of the machine. He appeared to be alone, but his head kept jerking to the side to look at something in the corner, behind the camera.

"Please… please. I haven't slept in…please. I have no energy. I can't… I can't…." He coughed hard before his legs buckled under him and he was yanked back to the floor by the revolving treadmill belt. He curled up on his side and tugged his legs close to his body, yellow strands of spit creeping through the crack between his lips. A dark figure- definitely a man- rushed forward and began CPR. The video stopped. The room was silent.

"This is one of two videos received, each showing what we believe to be the death of the most recent victims. Today, the body of Charlie Stockett- a local policeman- was found down at the police station, sitting on the steps like he was waiting for someone." A picture of one of the men they had on the screen earlier took half the monitor while a post-death image took up the other half.

"Has anyone else gone missing yet?" Prentiss asked, and JJ shook her head.

"None reported that fit the… that look at all like the other victims yet." She hated to point out the victim appearance, had stupidly hoped that no one would notice that they all were skinny, tall, awkward, brunettes. AKA Spencer Reid clones.

"How local was this police officer, anyway?" Penelope burbled, her bright green nails wiggling about nervously. Prentiss reached out and squeezed her shoulder tightly, trying to reassure her that the chances of a person being kidnapped twice were extremely unlikely.

"But, really, how close?" Rossi mumbled, leaning closer to JJ in an attempt to keep their voices from roaming over to Garcia's ears. JJ frowned at him.

"Local as in Quantico, Virginia." She whispered back. Her voice shook a bit and she mentally slapped herself. There was no reason to panic, because what Prentiss said was right: there was no way Reid could be kidnapped more than once.

"There is no way we are going to test Reid's luck like that!" Garcia squawked, having apparently overheard JJ and Rossi's attempt at covert conversation. She flew up from her chair and fluttered around nervously. "We can't just go on and start up an investigation while Reid is sick and defenseless and alone! We at least need to have someone to check up on him in the mornings to make sure he's still there!"

"No, really, Garcia. I don't think we need to-." Prentiss began, but was interrupted by Hotch, who stood up in his seat. His items were gathered in his arms and he was already walking to the door.

"I think it's a good idea, actually. JJ, assign someone capable and discreet to do that. We don't want to upset Reid. And Garcia, call Morgan, tell him to come back to the bullpen, and inform him on the case. We'll set out then." And he left.

The team scrambled.

XXX

"And you're sure you're okay to be alone?" Morgan asked for what had to be the hundredth time. Reid nodded, gesturing towards his pile of work he had convinced Morgan to grab on their way out.

"I'll be too busy to get sick." He joked, patting the top folder like a man did his car. He was feeling a little sick though, and wished Morgan would go and let him upchuck in peace. The older man still wasn't convinced though and took a step forward.

"You don't need something to drink? Or a wet wash cloth?" He looked oddly sheepish and unlike himself standing in the hallway, like it was somehow his fault Reid wasn't feeling well. Spencer smiled, deciding to let him help out a little, hoping it would make him feel better and take away the unreasonable guilt.

"That wash cloth would be nice, actually." He said, sitting down on the couch. Morgan grinned and set off to the small bathroom. Reid wished, last minute, that he had asked for the drink, in case he had left anything embarrassing out in the open. But Morgan came back seconds later with a cold cloth and no "I saw your funny secret" smiles making an appearance. Reid accepted the cloth gratefully as pressed it to his forehead.

"Thanks so much, Morgan. I feel a bit better now." And he did, the chill contracting with his feverish flesh felt very nice and he thought maybe- if he allowed himself, and he wouldn't- he would be able to take a nap. Morgan smiled at him and walked to the door.

"No problem. And if you need anything else, just call me and I'll get here as soon as I can." Reid gave him a thumbs up and lied back like he was about to go to sleep. He could hear Morgan snort as the door pushed open and he stepped out with one last goodbye. Reid pushed himself off the couch and got to work.

Morgan barely made it back to his car before his phone began to buzz. He plucked it out of his pocket and pressed it to his ear. "Hey, baby, what ya got for me?" he smiled, waiting for his lady to answer with her usual quick wit. Instead he was attacked by her burbling cries of agitation.

"This guy's going to kill Reid!" She screeched, and Morgan peeked out his window to see if there was anything suspicious in his immediate area. Nothing appeared out of place, which wasn't saying much since he didn't know the usual number of cars in the lot.

"Garcia? Who's going to kill Reid?"

And, in a panicked tone that didn't falter at all through the explanation, she told him about their case. He listened calmly, not interrupting once so she could get it all out of her system. When she finally finished with a sniff, he turned on his car and pulled out of the driveway.

"I wouldn't worry about it Garcia. Reid is in his apartment, surrounded by people who know and like him. He's going to work a little, then go to sleep. It's fine."

XXX

Reid's eyes broke open. His spine straightened rigidly and he pushed out a gasp. His clawed hands pried open and the pencil he had fallen asleep holding dropped and clattered on the smooth desk. His eyes flicked to the large wall clock and he sputtered at the time. 12:04. He had been sleeping and neglecting his work for about twenty-one minutes. The shock jerked his stomach roughly and sudden sickness tore through him. He tugged himself out of his seat and tumbled to the bathroom, where he heaved his innards up.

When his belly had been sufficiently emptied, Reid pushed himself to his feet and gargled some mouthwash, hoping to banish the acrid taste from is tongue. He tottered from the bathroom and into the kitchen. His refrigerator had been generously stocked by Morgan with ginger ale and other carbonated drinks when he brought him home.

Reid gingerly sipped from the can and turned on his eel to face his stack of files, when a rapping noise boomed from the door. He jumped lightly, a quiver trickling down his back. He groaned tiredly, but brusquely stomped to the door. He took a deep breath in through his nose, held it for ten seconds, and then let it out through his rounded lips. Then he yanked the door open.

The pop of metal startled him, and he leaned back automatically. It was a familiar noise from a long time ago, the sound of cold metal churning in preparation to kill. A figure rammed into the door, pistol readied, and pushed into the room. Reid staggered away from the entrance, hands going up to protect himself ineffectually. The back of his legs rammed into his coffee table and his knees bowed below him.

His body slapped the coffee table hard, and the wood collapsed below him. He bucked in pain and sickness rushed up his throat, discharging from between his lips in rivulets. His hand went to his stomach and he coughed roughly. A stranger's shadow blanketed him, two arms winding around him and lifting him from the floor. He hung loosely, condition paralyzing him. The only sign of life were the ragged breaths tearing in and out of his lungs. The man carefully exited the room, making sure to turn off the light.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N-** You might remember Anderson from the Fisher king (that might be one word…sorry if it is). He was the guy who had to drive Elle home, face Hotch's wrath, and then had to drive back to her house.

Also, thanks so much for all the feedback. It's really awesome to get so much response to something that I am really enjoying writing. Also, sorry for the delay.

**Chapter two-**

Once you are marked, there is no escape

-Warhammer 40000

Reid woke up with his face pressed against cold glass.

His eyes broke open tiredly. They swiveled in a blind study of his surroundings, flickering shut every few seconds when exhaustion dragged them down. His aching head dropped to his left shoulder, away from the chilled window he had been using as a pillow. His bunched shoulders quivered and he shoved his hands into his armpits, bare toes curved over the soft fabric of the floor mats, trying to gather up whatever warmth was stored there.

The sound of the radio was delicate; tittering in the air around him so quietly that he was sure the noise would be lost behind the heavy thud of his pulse. His brain pressed forward at a crawl, the loitering remnants of drug pushing through him like a clump of smoke stuck in the air. An itch danced up the side of his face and he moved sluggishly to scratch it away.

Hs wrist was cut short of its destination, the sharp curve of metal tugging his hand back with a jerk so that it slapped loudly against the side of the car door. He stared for a moment, lost in his shock. He had been handcuffed to the open pocket on the side of the car door. A strained noise poured from his throat and a calloused hand gently met his.

"Shh, Spencer; I've got you." Reid watched the hand tighten around his, like a snake coiling around its next meal. The hand was dry, the skin around his knuckles pulled tight like leather. His eyes toyed with the deep lines, focusing on anything but what was happening.

The car was vaulting forward through a tunnel of dark trees, hundreds of little stars leading them farther from his home. He could hear the road growl under him, see the rolling glimmer of headlights through an animal's eyes, and feel the relentless cold of the snow burrow through his clothes to barb his gooseflesh ridden skin.

Reid turned- eyes stiff and tired- to see who was driving.

And then he remembered.

Reid whimpered sickly and leaned away from the man, straining his wrist against the cuffs and huffing with effort. The heels of his feet scraped the floor and his body lifted up an inch from the seat. Training told him to calm down and think about his actions; panic told him to forget the facts and get the hell out of that vehicle.

"The stars are so bright tonight. They usually look plain- something I've seem billions of times before- but they're different now. Everything is changing." The man speculated, rubbing Reid's palm with his thumb.

XXX

Anderson was beginning to think that someone had put some bad juju on him.

He stood alone, staring around the small apartment he had just rummaged through like a drug addict who had lost his pills. The front door was still open, closing it having not been high on his lost at the time of its opening. He noticed that the walls were a dark, earthy green and the floor a cushy tan-brown. Art he didn't recognize as anything famous or well known was hung with little feng shui and a lot of crookedness. He ran a nervous hand over his face, breath wavering agitatedly.

First Elle, now Reid. He had no luck when it came to helping that damn team.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Aaron Hotchner's work number. Anderson gave the apartment one last look around; as if Reid would be hiding in the corner or sleeping under the bed (he had nothing to justify that ridiculous theory, other than loving his job and not wanting to lose it over a missing man). He really didn't want to have another talk with Aaron Hotchner that involved someone in his team being… unwell.

"Hotchner." His voice was serious and always somehow managed to make Anderson feel cowed yet welcome at the same time, like a painfully stern, yet loving, father. Or something.

"It's Anderson. Reid is, uh… off the premises." He rolled his eyes at his own awkwardness, clenching his fist and shifting his weight nervously to his other leg. He was an adult, there was no reason to be so nervous when talking to anyone over the phone.

"What?" Anderson jumped at the jolted word and moved the phone a few centimeters away from his ear. He hated to make excuses, and he was truly concerned for Reid, but he couldn't see how arriving at an empty apartment was his fault.

"When I showed up he was gone, sir." He mumbled, rubbing his right temple, where a bundle of pain was cracking against his skull. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, dreaming of his own home and dog and girlfriend. Anything to escape the wrath he was sure was about to be unleashed on him.

"Any sign of a struggle?" The question stunted him for a second, but he pushed off the wall and looked around one more time.

"No. Look, sir, I honestly-"

_Beep._

"Sir? Hello?"

XXX

Reid could feel the man's muscles tense as he leaned into him, trying not to belly flop on solid earth. They shambled forward in an awkward dance until the man was steadfast enough to hold all the weight Reid was despondently dropping on him. Reid's shoulders prickled with gooseflesh when his captor tightened his grip around his shoulders and helped him move drunkenly to the small house before them.

They waddled like that, bare feet flushing each time they dipped into the snow, until they hit the three rickety-looking wooden steps up to the dandelion yellow door. Reid stared tiredly at the steps, half of his brain wanting to kick the man in the groin and run like he was doing the serpentine (because he wouldn't be walking in a straight line even if he _could_ walk on his own) and the other half (the drugged up one) was begging him to just roll up in a ball and sleep.

It turned out that he didn't have a say in the matter.

His vision was whisked away from the bottom stair and placed on the dark line where the uneven streak of the roof and the white shimmer of stars crashed together abruptly. The man groaned with exertion as he carried Reid up the steps; careful not to bump his head into the wall when he worked the doorknob blindly.

Willowy troughs of hot coffee and cinnamon pushed from the opening door, interrupting the natural scents of the deep forest surrounding them. The entire thing was reminiscent of coffee shops and warm nights at home. Reid would have smiled if he was more observant of his surroundings and much less conscious of the fact that he was being carried by someone who had drugged him, broken into his home, and had transported him to a house in the middle of Nowhereville.

Reid was distantly aware of the door being bumped shut behind him and the following descent down a long line of stairs. The tips of his toes scraped against the wall of the narrow walkway, the friction painful against his cold, raw flesh. His back clouted a hard mattress without warning, and he gave a little gasp of shock. He turned onto his side and tried to not notice the acrid smell of sweat, vomit, and other human waste.

"Get as much sleep as you can. When the drugs wear off we'll begin the tests." The man whispered, running his hand up Reid's arm and gently squeezing his shoulder. The gesture made Reid want to ooze out of his own skin, leaving behind his murky brain so he could get away from that touch and the sick smell of the room.

XXX

_Finally. _

He could feel something different in the air; an excited shaking that bubbled up from the pads of his feet and snapped as it bumped the top of his head. His hands itched to touch the man sleeping in the room below him, his legs stiff and unwilling to let him leave the basement door. He was sure that if he was quiet enough he would be able to hear the heavy rise and fall of his chest, the soft wheeze that followed transfer of breath from and to his lungs.

Standing there, he loitered on their first true meeting. He closed his eyes and thought of the saccharine smell of Spencer, the way it was almost dizzying in its perfection. He saw long hair dipping over the curve of his forehead to cover those deep old eyes that had just popped when he saw the man in his apartment. He could still feel the Spencer's weight in his arms, held like a child, his body shivering painfully as he trudged barefooted through the snow. It was like they were sharing something delicate and special.

Maybe they were, maybe they could _both _feel this glorious and overwhelming affection. He tried to remember what it felt like to be loved, for someone to want to have you with them always. It was like dusting off an old record, hearing birds begin to sing at the end of winter, falling and knowing someone would forever be there to catch you.

His jaw tightened and he gripped the bottom of his shirt nervously, praying with all that he had that someone would finally pass the tests and stay.

XXX

He had once believed that the best thing to do for himself was to run away from everything familiar.

There had been so much crowded in his brain for years; that bundle of pain and hate and fear growing like cancer in the center of his head. Every case seemed to feed the creature, to give it energy and life. Every time he closed his eyes he would see the disfigured bodies or the screaming families that always begged him to _fix it. _

Those voices put gravel in his belly and a drink in his hand, and he would watch the wall in his office (that office with so many faces that stared and stared and stared) and wait for something in his brain to click and tell him what the hell he was supposed to do.

One day, he had woken up hating the job that he had once needed, and took a step back; to witness what he had once lived from the distance of a TV screen. It had taken a long time for him to be able to hear about his team's cases and not want to call them with his theories. He would sit on the stiff bed of whatever motel he had decided to stay at for the week or day on his way to wherever, jiggling his legs anxiously. He would hear about how people died in the brief news coverage and worry for the people he knew would be flying out to investigate.

But when he got a home, a job, and a life (a real life where he could cook and have a dog and a girlfriend that wouldn't end up being murdered), it all just began to fade like an old memory. His brain would still jitter a bit when he heard of a new case- he figured that was a habit he would never escape- but there wasn't such a thick desire to solve it.

And boy, did that feel good.

The television he had set up in the little sitting room of his home was nothing special. It wasn't a jumbo, flat screen, 3D monster that was hooked up to the wall. He didn't really see the need for that. It was just a simple little machine with DirecTV and a DVD player. He mostly only sat down in front of it after work for a few minutes to watch the news broadcast and learn the current state of the world or maybe for background noise when he had to bring papers home to grade or was reading a good book.

It had been a particularly good day at work when everything he had built up stopped mattering.

He whistled as he walked down the hall, dropping keys and hanging up his jacket as he moved. The professor of American History had invited him to dinner the next night, and he was admittedly excited. She was not only a lovely woman aesthetically, but there was something about the smooth way her voice looped over words that stole his thoughts and will. He liked to think that this dinner was truly a date, though he wouldn't treat it as such until he was certain.

He switched the television on and dropped down onto his small brown couch, tucking a pillow under his head. The usual fluff they played before parents put their children to sleep played, then the scores of whatever sport games had been on recently were tossed at him. He tried to urge himself off the couch when his eyes dropped shut, knowing that he had become too old to sleep on the couch. He pushed himself up and stretched before standing and moving to the bathroom.

"_It has been confirmed that- as another victim was discovered the other day in the same state as his predecessors- a man with similar characteristics has disappeared. The FBI hasn't released much information on the ongoing investigation, but has stated that the latest man to go missing is one of their own Special Agents. Aaron Hotchner- the Unit Chief of the BAU- made this public announcement earlier today." _

He stopped where he stood, his hand pressed against the bathroom door. He turned slowly, his eyes squinting at the screen. A picture of Spencer had appeared in the corner of the screen. It didn't look like he had known there was a camera aimed at him; his chin was resting on the knuckles of is right hand, lips twisted with concentration. A wave of nausea bobbled in his gut.

"_Spencer Reid became part of my team when he was twenty-two, and quickly became part of our family. He has benefited us in every way, and is always improving. There is no doubt in my mind that we will get him back. And when we do, the person who took him will be persecuted to the full extent of the law. If you have any information on Reid's whereabouts, please contact the hotline with this number…." _

Looked like he was going to have to cancel his date. 

XXX

In his dreams he leaned on a sycamore tree.

There were no walls or people. Just him and that tree, placed somewhere where tall grass swayed in the calm night wind and stars were splashed across a black sky. He didn't speak, not to himself or the tree or to the whisper of wind. The sound of the tree's arms clapping together sweetly above him was enough to fill any discomforting white noise.

He rested his head on the twisted bark of the tree, enjoying the nothingness of where he was. He was safe. The murky sky was strong enough to push out the waves of everything that ate away at his mind in consciousness, and for the first time in his entire life he didn't have a thought in his head.

The absolute void settled finely around his brain, coiled and trembling in anticipation for the alertness that always came. He didn't linger on the knowledge that the solace he found in that field was fictional, fading away when his eyes opened and what twisted through him unraveled and shot away, because it always returned when he slept again.

**A/N- **Much shorter than the first one. Sorry, the next one will be longer. And probably filled with crying people and woe. I love fictitious woe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter three-**

He was the mildest-manner'd man that ever scuttled ship or cut a throat.

— Lord Byron

"It's been a while." Hotchner murmured. He resisted the urge to fiddle with the pencil that was sitting appealingly two inches from his hand. He instead focused his attention on the almost golden brown eyes of the man standing a foot from his desk. They were still sharp, taking in every single detail of the room, and probably observing all the minute changes in Hotch's appearance.

"It has." The simple acknowledgment was followed by a curt nod of the head and a smile that was painfully timid coming from a man Aaron had once looked up to.

"Where have you been?" Hotch tried to place the question before the man delicately, because those that run away to find peace rarely share where they found it. The slight crinkle that pressed between his eyebrows told Hotch he hadn't been subtle enough, but it was difficult to retain the feelings of resentment and grief (unpleasant feelings coated with guilt, because it was wrong to be upset with the man) when they kept shooting up his shoulders and down his spine.

"I saw the news." The man deflected, the pinch in his eyes begging Hotch not to ask again. Hotch's stomach burned at the unspoken request, but he pushed the question out of his head for a later time.

"I imagine you've seen a lot of news over the past few years." He waved his hand in the direction of the chair placed on the opposite side of his desk, and the man sat down.

"Yes, but this is obviously different." His voice was clipped with the beginnings of impatience, and Hotch's neck and shoulders began to tense. He didn't want and argument, just to find the youngest agent as fast as possible. There was no time to work something out with Strauss to slip a retired agent into the investigation, especially when she was already reluctant to even give them such a personal case.

"Of course. It was always different with Reid." Every bit of the man's face screamed guilt for a moment, but the give of regret was quickly tucked away somewhere to be privately dealt with later. Hotch surmised that he would never know what was really going on in the other man's head. He had probably only ever glimpsed through the thick barrier that curtained the true workings of his mentality.

"What do you have so far?" He crossed his arms and leaned into the desk, like they were gossiping about someone in the room. Hotch acquiesced him and moved in closer as well, his eyes firmly meeting those opposite him.

"You know I can't share that with a civilian." Hotch murmured back with an apologetic twitch of the eyebrows.

"But I'm asking you to share with _me_." The words were carried with a bitter tone of patronization; the expectance in his face grating on Hotch's nerves.

"And you're a civilian."

The man contemplated that for a moment- his head shifted a tick to the right and his eyes glazed over with thought- and Hotchner wondered if it could honestly be the first time he had thought of himself that way.

"I guess that's true. But you know I need to be part of this case." Hotch's pulse sped a bit and he slowly pushed away from the man, because that was true.

He did know what it was like to have a case hit close to home.

"And you know that you can't be." He ground out, concentrating on the uneven, torn cuticle of his thumb. Hotch glanced up over his dark lashes, meeting the shooting glare of the other man. They sat like that for too long, neither daring to budge from their perceived position of dominance.

"Hotch." His lips barely moved to form the rare plea for help.

"I'm sorry." He breathed.

"I can't just go home and wait for his death to be announced on the news."

"I won't let him kill Reid." Hotch argued, making a true effort to _not _stomp to the other side of his desk to throttle the man for suggesting it.

"You don't have control over what the unsub does."

"We have a month."

"Unless his pattern changes. It's happened before."

XXX

"I didn't know Reid is such a neat freak." Rossi turned from the spotless kitchen to face Morgan, his eyebrows raised a tick. Morgan stared back, memories of empty coffee cup stacks and colorful candy wrappers speckled across his friend's desk clicking through his mind.

"Neither did I." Morgan huffed, turning back to the bookshelf stuffed with hardbacks of all sizes and languages. The sides were all wrinkled and creased from Reid cracking them open too many times. No dust. "He keeps his apartment cleaner than his desk."

"Anderson was right; I don't see any sign of a struggle." The older agent grumbled, staring at the carefully stacked case folders that had remained untouched on the large wooden desk pushed in the corner of the living room. In the report he had started, Reid's thin handwriting ran to the end of a paragraph; stopping at a completely logical point. Nothing was pushed over or broken.

The only thing he could see that was missing was Reid himself.

Morgan crashed down on the leather couch, staring at his own reflection in the television screen. The TV wasn't impressive; just large enough that Reid could see what was happening in whatever documentary or episode of Doctor Who he had selected. Morgan's was 64 inches with speakers that could blast the sound so loud he swore his whole house shook.

They rarely spent movie night (which took place every other Saturday as long as they didn't have a case) at Reid's.

"Do you see anything I don't?" Rossi asked, carding his fingers through his hair exasperatedly. He found it hard to believe that their unsub had swept into an agent of the FBI's home without there being _some _kind of fight or any mess at all.

"I'm not sure. Something's missing." Morgan's brows furrowed. He was stretching his brain to the last time he had visited Reid's apartment. It had been on a Sunday afternoon, and Reid had called him over because he was certain there was some sort of critter roaming around, and he had persuaded himself it was determined to eat him. He had wanted Morgan to help him find and release it to the wild.

They never found anything.

"What, you mean evidence?" Rossi quipped with a snort, though neither of them found the complete lack of indication very funny. He moved to sit beside Morgan, and they both waited for the other to find the difference between the two mental images.

"_Oh_." Morgan sat up, turning his head to Rossi. Rossi's hands shot out, palms up, waiting for the other agent to tell him what he was so excited about.

"What?"

"The coffee table." And he shot to his feet; twirling around as if to make sure he had it right. Rossi pushed off the couch and grabbed Morgan's shoulders to still him, eyes squinted with confusion.

"What coffee table?" Rossi looked around, wondering how the hell he had missed an entire coffee table apparently covered in enough evidence to pull Morgan to his feet.

"It's gone." His eyes shifted to the floor, where the table had once sat, and he wondered where the books Reid had stacked on it were.

"So either Reid got rid of it or the unsub did." Rossi's voice was filled with skepticism. Morgan was worried about Reid- they all were- and was handling their failing investigation by grasping at straws. He had heard of taking souvenirs, but a coffee table was a bit much.

"He wouldn't just get rid of it. It used to be his grandma's, then his mom's, now his." Morgan argued, still staring pointedly at the empty space that now had nothing more than a few dents where the table's feet had once been.

"Call Garcia and ask if there was anything missing from the other victim's homes." Rossi said before turning to look at the missing agent's desk more.

Morgan nodded at Rossi's back and pulled out his phone, moving to the far corner of the room. He dialed Garcia's number and waiting, staring at the Mozart sheet music laid across the keys of the piano Reid had purchased to replace the small portable one he had learned to play with.

"Give me something, Morgan. I can't just sit here waiting for a call. I need to help, I need work!" He imagined her hands fluttering around her keyboard, every little bit of her aching to do everything in her power to get Reid back home. Hearing her voice waver so violently- like she hadn't stopped crying yet- made his stomach hurt.

"I know, Baby Girl. Did friends or family of the other… victims report anything missing?" She hummed with thought, and he could faintly hear the quick clicking of her fingers zipping around the keyboard. The noise was almost comforting, and he let his shoulders slouch a bit.

"Other than the victim? No." Her tone was apologetic, and he could still hear the tapping of keys as she double and triple checks that she was right.

"Damn." He groaned, rubbing at his right eye with the heel of his hand. That meant that they had absolutely zip coming from the front half of the apartment, so unless JJ or Prentiss were doing a better job on their part they were teetering on the fragile edge of screwed.

"Why? Did you find something? Did I ruin it?" Garcia's voice grew panicked, and he worried that he was going to jump start a whole new onslaught of tears before her cheeks had even dried from the last one.

"No, don't worry about it Garcia." He soothed, pushing down on one of the piano's black keys. A low, somber note hummed at him, and he found that it summed up his own mood. There was a moment of silence where no one spoke, and he could feel the nervousness seep out through the speaker.

"And you guys don't have anything else?" Her voice was tentative; no judgment at their failure but hope that things could get better.

"Nothing."

XXX

"I've never seen his room before." Prentiss said, idly chewing at her thumb nail. She had stopped beside JJ, whose hand was poised mid-twist on the heavy door's knob. They stared silently for a moment, each trying not to imagine Reid's face on the previous victim's battered remains.

"It feels like an invasion of privacy." JJ whispered, a sudden hand jerk jolting a sharp complaint from the handle. Prentiss watched her from the corner of her eye, noting the bitterness that pinched at her face.

"That's because it is." She agreed, crossing her arms to keep from chewing at her nails. She tipped back nervously on her heels, leaning as far away from the door as she could manage without making her discomfort obvious to JJ, though she could probably already see it.

"But it's necessary." She tucked a long chunk of blonde locks behind her ear and nodded to herself. JJ wouldn't be comfortable with the team shuffling through the personal items she kept in her bedroom, and Reid had always kept a good chunk of his life private.

"Yes." Prentiss nodded adamantly. She tried not to think about what the team would find if they searched her home. There are things in this world you don't need to know about even your closest friends.

"And Reid would understand."

"Of course." Prentiss tried for a comforting voice, but it came out a bit more nauseated than relaxing. "And it will only take a few minutes. Small bedrooms don't take long to search.

JJ opened the door just a crack so that they could see that the walls were blue. She turned her head a little to look at Prentiss before pushing it completely open and walking into the room. It was small and tidy, the closet and dresser shoved into the corner of the room and the bed close enough to the door that a tired Reid wouldn't have to walk too far to hit it.

"No books." JJ said, opening up the first drawer of his dresser. It was half filled with socks of every color and pattern se could imagine. She moved them around a bit, not sure what she was looking for. The next drawer was for ties and scarves, then- to her horror- underwear. She stared the garments down for an awkward moment before sliding the drawer shut (if she had rifled trough the pile she would have found two small bottles full of clear liquid he had never thrown away) and leaning for the next one that thankfully only held sweatpants and t-shirts.

"I don't think he actually sleeps in here that often." Prentiss gets up off her belly and stands, wiping off her pants. Fortunately, there was nothing under the bed but a few pairs of shoes. She could only really imagine bodies and monsters stuffed under there, and hadn't exactly lit up at the idea of facing either. She moved to the closet, yanking open the doors.

"JJ." She gasped; her heart swimming in her stomach. She took a few steps back, tapping her friend's shoulder until she put down a Van Gogh 'the Scream' shirt and turned to see what Emily had discovered.

The closet was empty.

"What does that mean?" JJ asked, though she had a pretty good idea. They both moved in closer, Prentiss sticking her hands in to see if he had some vests or slacks pressed into the sides (though she wasn't sure if a vest would make her feel better).

"Well, either Reid packed up and left or whoever took him isn't planning on him leaving." She answered, coming up empty and leaning out of the closet. She went back to chewing at her thumb nail, ignoring her previous hopes of growing them out.

"But his dressers were still full." JJ argued.

"Maybe the guy was in a hurry and only grabbed what he could." Prentiss moved to the door, JJ following close behind her, and turned off the light.

"Or he's going to come back."

XXX

Reid's eyes opened and ticked stiffly to the nightlight plugged into the wall. It illuminated the far corner of the room, and if he focused his eyes on it he didn't have to think about just how dark the windowless basement had become.

Eyes planted stiffly on the yellow light, Reid pushed to his feet. Fear congealed in his back and shoulders, stiffening his body enough to nudge it up over straight legs. His head was loose with drugs that he could feel twist curiously in and out of his brain, and he tilted dangerously to his left as he tried to walk forward.

Reid glared up the staircase, before sweeping a heavy leg up onto the first step and using the handrail to tug himself up. Eyes fighting to stay open, he moved up another step, and another.

His foot caught on the bottom of the next stair and he banged his knees on it hard. Taking a moment to catch his breath, he listened for any movement above him. The whole house was still, watching his struggle.

He stretched his hands out to grip a few steps ahead and heaved himself forward with his knees. Crawling up the steps proved to be easier, and he leaned was soon leaning heavily on the door. He managed to get to his feet and tried his luck at the doorknob. His fingers wouldn't cooperate, and he had to grip the knob with both his palms to twist it.

Locked.

Reid's eyes stung with panic. He wheezed, pressing all of his weight onto the doorframe. Twisting his hands in his hair, he sunk to the ground with a low whine. He sat on the top step, rocking a bit from side to side, and let the tears come.

XXX

The two men were still sitting across from each other, both calmed down significantly. The entire room seemed to be fogged down by Hotch's company's sudden melancholy. An offer had been placed- with much unease- on the table: come out of retirement, take the requalification test, and rejoin the team.

The man's eyebrows furrowed with unhappiness, and Hotch wouldn't have been surprised if he had stood up with a wave goodbye, suddenly understanding the consequences of ever showing up at his office.

"I'll do it." He whispered, and Hotch could almost feel his struggle in is own chest.

"Are you sure? The team will ask questions about where you've been, and I doubt you will be able to avoid answering them as well as you did with me." He wasn't sure why he was trying to talk the man out of it. They could use an extra brain working on the case, especially someone with one like his.

"I have to." And he slapped on his old face- the one that Hotch could remember and was comfortable with. It was solid and knowing, like every move you made would be analyzed with ease and filed away somewhere for later.

With a sigh, Hotch stood and walked around his desk to face the man. He put a hand on his shoulder and stuck the other one out before his chest. Allowing his fear to show- if only for a second- the man gripped Hotch's hand and they shook.

"Welcome back, Gideon."

* * *

A/N- First of all, I had promised that this would be longer than the last chapter. That obviously didn't happen. Sorry. Also, not all that much woe. Maybe a bit, but I more or less skipped over them all receiving the news of Reid's disappearance.

Second, I'm going to try to write a short chapter to put up next week, but I might not get it up. The reason for that is that over the weekend I'm going to my sister's college orientation thing and wont have time to mess with my writing. Then I will be going to Boston for three days and Washington DC for four with my sister and Aunt. Sorry guy. I know my updates have been really slow, I just want this story to be really good.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer- I don't Own Criminal Minds or Smile DK (and, contrary to what is stated in this chapter, I actually enjoy their music. I just can't imagine Hotch rocking out to Kissy Kissy).

**Chapter four-**

Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.

—Cersei Lannister, A Clash of Kings

Gritty breath rattled out of Reid's heavy lungs, his hectic chest quivering with every painful inhale. He had fallen asleep on the top step; his limp arms dangling numbly below him, and his cheek was balanced on two gangly knees. His face was blanched, the dark smear under each eye and his flushed nose prominent on the otherwise pale face. He was still, his struggling chest the only motion in his worn body.

The room he had slept in was surprisingly well put together. The walls were painted a rich, chocolaty brown that ran down to gushy beige carpet, giving the room unexpected warmth. There was a large painting of white tulips blooming before a raging sunrise hung above the thick brown desk that faced the wall opposite his bed. A stack of lined paper and some books were piled neatly to its side, the center of the flat surface having been occupied by an old fashioned typewriter. Directly across from the staircase, there was a blue, overstuffed easy chair sandwiched between a large bookshelf and a sleek, black lamp. The bed- which had a earthy green comforter- was in the corner of the room with a dresser and a closet standing before it.

Something above him changed position, working a loud creak out of the ceiling, and Reid's shoulders jerked with consciousness. He coughed into his elbow, face shifted with fresh pain. A hard blink cleared his vision, and he got a good look around the room. It was nice, clean. Maybe he had expected a shack (_They believe you can see inside men's minds_.) or something a bit more maniacal than a comfortable living area.

Face sticky with half dried tears, Reid rose on to unsteady feet and thumped down the stairs. Hot sweat was running over the curve of his temple by the time he tripped over the final step, shoulder popping as his firm grip on the stairwell kept him from falling.

Reid eased himself across the room, drowsy eyes falling to tiny slits as he dragged his heavy feet. His hands traced the air, fingers twitching madly in search of something solid. They froze over the arm of the blue easy chair, carefully caressing the soft fabric before choking it in his desperate grip. He twirled and lowered himself into the chair like a tired old man, holding both arms tightly before slowly relaxing his elbows and setting himself down with a sigh.

He studied the door cautiously, trying to swallow the rock in his throat. He was admittedly a bit of a danger magnet- it was something he was constantly teased for- and it was an agonizing experience. There was no true understanding for him in those moments of shock, no clear path. He was never really prepared for what was going to happen to him. But there was always the profile. He had always seen the victims and known the unsub's MO. Now there was nothing. For all he knew, this could have been a case JJ hadn't taken in.

He resignedly hauled his foot up onto his grandmother's old coffee table, and tried not to fall asleep.

XXX

The thick black clock glaring down from its seat on the wall proclaimed the time was eight p.m. The bullpen was nearly empty; the small bunches of desks vacated by tired employees that were ready to go home to their families and their beds. The only people working that night were bundled together in chairs they had dragged to Morgan's desk, small yellow folders opened on agents' laps, and cold cups of coffee forgotten between their feet.

"There were no signs of a struggle at the crime scene, no blood, and no fingerprints." Prentiss stated for the umpteenth time. Her front teeth were working on her pinky nail, eyebrows scrunched close together. Morgan reached over and took a picture from her folder, holding it close to his face as if he could launch himself into the photo and dig back into the crime scene.

"But there was a coffee table and a closet full of clothes missing." Rossi mumbled distractedly as he gently tugged the picture from Morgan and grimaced at it. Remembering the drink, he sipped from his coffee cup. His frown deepened, and he placed the cup back under his chair.

"He hopes to keep the people he takes permanently." Pausing midsentence, Hotch flipped between two papers, squinting at the image of Reid's apartment, then at the kitchen of Charlie Stockett's home. "Or, at least, for an extended amount of time." He turned to the next page and found himself staring at Stockett positioned on the police station steps, bruised cheek resting on his bony shoulder.

"But he's only taken things from Reid's apartment." Morgan's voice was distant as he glanced over Prentiss's shoulder at the coroner's report. He squeezed her arm, his stomach burning sickly at the thought of Reid strapped to a table, having his leg sawed off by the unsub.

"So he has high hopes." Rossi groused, arching his brows and looking away from the pixilated image of Reid's small living room.

"The sock and underwear drawers looked untouched." The clack of heels followed JJ as she stood from her chair, lifting the lid from the heavy box that sat on Morgan's desk. She pulled out a folder labeled JASON MULDS and took it back to her seat.

"Maybe… he didn't have time to grab any?" Prentiss mused, taking a pretzel out of the "snack jar" Garcia had left them before she returned to her apartment (only after a loud argument that ended with Morgan promising that he would call her if they found anything new).

"But he had the time to grab Reid, a coffee table, and a wardrobe." Morgan sent Prentiss a sardonic look and she shrugged. He let the corner of his mouth curl up, but tinkered nervously with the crook of his folder, bending it one way, then the other, then back again.

"He could be hoping to go back." She suggested, popping her eyebrows and switching folders with JJ, whose face was pinched with pictures of stomach contents and hacked arms. She tightened her blonde ponytail before digging into the new file.

"I doubt it. Based on the lack of anything, the unsub is organized and smart. He wouldn't risk returning to the crime scene and getting caught." Rossi carded a dry hand through his hair and handed the picture back to Morgan, who paused with his fidgeting only long enough to stuff it back with the others in his lap.

"He's also been leaving tapes with messages like, 'He wasn't strong enough.' And 'He broke too easily.'" JJ held up a picture of the tape before handing it over to Hotch, who squinted at it fleetingly before passing it back.

"That could be a sign of anger at people's weaknesses." Prentiss said, remembering when she and Morgan had forced Reid to go to the gym with them and he struggled to keep up. Her stomach clenched and she wished she had continued to make him go.

"Or he's showing guilt that he couldn't keep them alive. In the videos, he tried to revive the victims. If he was angry, he would probably try to humiliate them or make a show of their murders instead of cleaning and dressing them." Hotch closed his folder and put it on Morgan's desk. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the clock, realizing that Jack would already be in bed when he got home.

"Maybe he−" Morgan began, eyes bright with the bellow of a good idea in his head, but stopped when he saw JJ stiffen across from him. He twisted in his seat, catching a faint whiff of flowery perfume, and faced Erin Strauss. Her face was stern, displeasure saturating the corners of her eyes and mouth. She stepped in to the middle of their circle and strode over to Hotch, who unhurriedly rose from his chair and watched her expectantly.

"Agent Hotchner, I expect you and your team to all leave work no later than nine o'clock tonight. None of you will return to work until eight o'clock Monday morning." She said; her voice hollow with wavering confidence. Hotch's eyes ticked to the clock. It was eight thirty.

Morgan rose to his feet, his voice low as he sidled closer to the section chief. She looked at him, and he saw how tired her eyes were. "Strauss, we have to take all the time we get. No one the unsub takes has survived more than−"

"These have always been the rules, Agent Morgan. I can't bend them just for you. Especially not after our recent negotiation." Strauss set her eyes on Hotch, and he wondered if she knew he hadn't told the team about Gideon taking the requalification test.

"Ma'am." JJ set her folder aside and began to rise, but stilled when Strauss gestured for her to remain seated. She dropped back into her chair, face etched with concern.

"If any of you return before that time, it will appear that you all have a conflict of interest and the case you are currently working on involving Agent Reid will be transferred to another team. Am I clear?" Strauss stepped out of the circle and looked back at the anxious team, her eyes glazed over with weariness. The team huffed their resignation, and she started towards the door, stopping one last time with the glass exit dropping closed and hitting the back of her leg.

"It is out of my control." Her voice was hushed; a tress of air through the room. She nodded once before pushing the door open and striding out.

XXX

With each foot drop the old steps bewailed, letting out such a cry that Reid- even expecting the upset of noise- couldn't help but jump in sympathy. The shrieks stopped and one navy blue tennis shoe landed beside the other on the carpet. Reid could feel each of his muscles bunch together with a painful tension, his back bowing deep into his chair. Long legs stretched up from the shoes, leading to a lean frame of delicate muscle. The man was a creation of careful angles, his body a mess of sharp edges and hard features. His strong cheekbones arched out from under two dark green eyes that studied Reid with childlike wonder. Rich brown hair tangled up from his head, reaching to the sky in root-like barbs.

"Good morning." He whispered, and-hearing his captor's voice for the first time without the thick clog of drugs- Reid noticed how dulcet it was.

Reid nodded in reply, and the man shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. They watched each other from a comfortable distance, learning how the other breathed in the muggy silence. The man's breath would occasionally hitch excitedly and his knees would pop in a jerky spring. Reid's wheezed out of him, his body slung sluggishly over the chair. There was nothing else; just the two of them sharing air and hearing how the other felt rush from their lungs.

A shy smile streamed across the man's face, and he slowly approached Reid. He stood over the still body, clasping cold hands in his own.

"My name is Thomas Edlund." He said, awkwardly shaking one of the hands he held in his own. Reid bobbed his head again; eyes connecting the gold specks in his irises until Thomas yanked his arm up, propelling him out of his chair. He wiggled loosely on tired knees, arms swinging wildly in the empty air. Reid clambered forward, colliding violently with Tomas. They vied against each other, swaying in a morbid dance, until a steady arm corded around Spencer's waist. He was twisted until he was standing beside his captor, his own arm pulled over the other's neck.

He was guided forward, his feet bumping around gauchely against the other pair. They approached the stairs, Thomas looking up with knowing distaste and Reid with outright revulsion. Taking a deep preparatory breath, Thomas tightened his grip on Reid and heaved him up the steps. Their bodies worked against the task, Reid's skinny frame surprisingly heavy in its lethargy, making it difficult for the other man- who certainly had more muscle but wasn't exactly Derek Morgan- to lug the two of them up. They were both rasping loudly by the time they hit the top step; Tomas leaned Reid against the wall and paused his mission so he could catch his breath.

"I've never had this problem before." He chuckled, scratching absentmindedly at his cheek. Reid stared back at him, concentrating fully on keeping himself propped against the wall. The chuckling died out after a moment and Thomas's face dropped into something unfocussed. He stared just past Reid's shoulder, his jaw rolling from side to side thoughtfully. "Maybe I'm just tired. I've had a stressful few months." A slow smile creaked back into his features, and he moved back to Reid, grabbing his hand and tugging it playfully. "C'mon. I bet you're hungry." He peeled Reid off the wall, patted his cheek cheerfully, and pushed open the door.

XXX

"So… where exactly am I supposed to park?" Morgan asked, frowning pointedly at the orange vintage Datsun 240Z. He forgave his baby girl's lousy parking for her- unintentionally- gifting him the memory of Hotch staring at it, trying to decide between hurting Garcia's feelings by turning down her request that he ride with her, or getting in the flashy car. He chuckled, and JJ peeked up from the file she had been glancing through for the umpteenth time and gave him a questioning look.

"In the grass." She said, before focusing back on the yellow folder in her lap and turning the page slowly.

"JJ, I kind of doubt Rossi would appreciate us tearing up his yard." Morgan's face puckered in thought as he said it, and he turned his gaze to her. She shrugged, closing her folder with finality and returning his look. He searching her face for a sign that she was joking, but everything was smooth and honest.

"It won't tear up the grass, just smash it down." JJ reasoned, unbuckling her seatbelt and adjusting her position until she was comfortable. She sat back with a muted thump, and waited for him to move into the large patch of neatly mowed grass beside the weeded flower bed.

"Do you usually park in people's yards?" He asked incredulously.

"I grew up in the middle of nowhere. If the driveway was full, we rolled into the yard. No one cared." They stared at each other for a few silent moments until Morgan cracked a smile and gripped the wheel loosely.

"Alright. But if Rossi gets mad, _you_ were the one driving." He warned, his voice warm. He pulled carefully into the newly crafted parking place, not entirely trusting the reassurance of safety.

They got out of the car and- after Morgan warily assessed the condition of the driven over grass- headed to the front door of Rossi's mansion. Morgan jabbed the doorbell a few times before a windswept Hotch welcomed them with his lips pulled in a tight line. Morgan suppressed his laughter, raising his eyebrows at his boss's messy hair. JJ pressed her hand over the wild smile that stretched across her face at his unusually disheveled appearance.

"You could have warned me it was a convertible." He muttered, his voice barely a whisper. He turned his head to the side; Morgan guessed to see if Garcia was behind him, waiting for the newest arrivals to be taken into the house. "And the… music would have been nice to know about." He grunted before stepping to the side and letting them step into the warm foyer.

"She blare it?" Morgan asked, his voice almost as low as Hotch's. The other man nodded slowly, and Morgan tried to imagine Penelope rocking out to her music on full blast with Hotch (who was probably squinting at the lack of car roof with disapproval) trying to figure out the appeal of Smile DK.

Morgan was just about to ask him what his favorite track was, when the other man stop mid stride and gave him a look that quickly erased both his and JJ's smile.

"Hotch?" JJ asked, wrinkling the case file in her tight grip. Hotch sighed, peeking behind himself with an unhappy look. Morgan was suddenly aware of the quick hushed argument he could hear coming from the room across the hall. He met Hotch's gaze, his frown prominent, and took a step forward. Hotch pressed a hand against his chest and stepped forward, pushing them both further away from the room the voices were coming from.

"I didn't tell you before now because I didn't know if he would pass the requalification test or… change his mind." The words were slow and deliberate, Hotch's eyes holding onto Morgan's the whole time. They watched each other for a beat before he dropped his arm and stepped out of the agents' way. Morgan moved to the living room entryway quickly, trying to make out what the voices were snapping at each other. He recognized one as Rossi, and the other…. He stepped into the room, a frown peeling across his face as he saw Prentiss sitting beside Rossi, who paused in his heated conversation to look at him. Across from Rossi, with his back turned to Morgan, the other guest stopped midsentence and slowly turned in his seat to see who had arrived.

"Hello Morgan." The man smiled crookedly, and Morgan could see an unfamiliar lightness in his eyes. He wondered, fleetingly, if escape could help you that much. If running away could truly give you such relief.

"Gideon?"

A/N 2- First, I am going to come right out and apologize for ending another chapter with someone saying Gideon's name. Also, for those of you who are questioning JJ's parking decisions, she grew up in a small down surrounded by woods, and I'm growing up in one surrounded by corn. Every inch of your property (and sometimes your neighbor's, if they are willing) is a potential parking spot.


End file.
